I was today years old when I found out that the Last of Us versions of the songs are officially on Spotify. I cried, I’m weak when I hear Joel singing Future days.
happy two year tumblrversary lovely liv @sitp-recs! thank you so much for all of the encouragement and support you’ve given to me and everyone in fandom. to celebrate your two year anniversary, here are 400 words of run ons featuring draco reflecting on his two-year anniversary with harry. thanks so much to @written-in-ash for helping me fight commas.
The sun burned embers on the horizon before they realized what the departing day marked — a line drawn against time, and crossed again by clumsy feet. Draco knew he could never capture it, but if he tried, it might be:
The outline Harry’s hair made on summer-sunned days — short, and then long, and then short again — but always capturing the same glow as fading daylight thinned itself into a halo. The path Draco took as he walked behind him, fitting his feet into footsteps forged in flattened grass, Harry always a few paces ahead, and rarely looking back.
Or the dark skids against the floors of their first, and then second, and then third flats, where the legs of couches and tables dragged against cheap linoleum and imitation hardwood. The stains that would be lifted easily with scouring spells if they hadn’t long ago stopped bothering to erase their mistakes.
Or the burn of his tongue on too-hot tea. Or the crumpled fabric of threadbare t-shirts tossed into the corners of bathrooms. Or the particular wrist movement for spells that revived wilting ivy and overwatered succulents. Or the way that when Harry tried to leave him, he closed the door so gently the sound could be hushed away by a quiet sigh or the breeze through an open window. The way that when Harry came back, it was louder each time, a revelry of bags dropped on floors and brooms clattering walls and a path stamped by heavy footfall, one Draco thought the floor might one day memorize as it seeped into the earth below.
Or the sound of slow, quiet breaths, cheeks squished against armrests, and the deep slumber of a man who earned his every exhale, even the ones that turned to snores. Or the sheen of moonlight spread thin across sweat rich sheets on the nights Draco lay awake and wondered. Not whether they would one day tear each other apart, but whether they already had: limb from limb, only to find themselves demolished things, recomposed into reflected shapes that always recognized each other, if seldom themselves.
Or the two years behind them, not a threshold but a bridge. And a future Draco might try to pluck as if from a tree, to sink his teeth into and let dribble down his cheeks, knowing he would never truly taste it until it was kissed from his lips.
